Monthly Archives: May 2013

The Three Hundred Questions Game. It’s Not as Fun as it Sounds.

They say the average child asks somewhere around three hundred questions a day.  I don’t know who “they” are, or who “they” interviewed to get this information, but it certainly wasn’t my toddler, who can ask three hundred questions before breakfast.  I’m pretty sure he’s gifted.  I have three kids total (that I know of) and the types of questions they ask and the questioning style varies.

The toddler asks a ton of questions.  Granted, 90% of his questions are “Whatcha doin’?”, “Why?” or “What do you mean you’re going insane?” but it still requires time and energy to answer his constant stream of questioning.  They say it’s good to encourage a child to be curious and to ask questions.  “Knowledge is power.”  Screw that.  Mommy tops out at one hundred questions per day so choose your questions wisely.

The nine-year old asks far fewer questions, but in rapid fire style.  It can make a head spin for sure.  “What’s heaven like?What makes diamonds sparkle?Who invented bubble gum?”  Geeze kid…I don’t know…Heaven is full of angels and chocolate, fairy shit makes a diamond sparkle and everyone knows Willy Wonka invented bubble gum.

The teen asks only one question, but he asks it three hundred times a day.  “Can I have some money”?  Um, no…get a job.  My nursing home isn’t going to be cheap you know, you better start saving up now.

I thought of a few ways to cope with this game of 300 questions.  The first way was a bottle of wine, but I guess you’re not supposed to drink until 5 pm.  Whatever.  Who makes these rules???  Also, it’s frowned upon in our society to duct tape our kids mouths shut, even if it’s just for five minutes of peace.  Any other suggestions?  I’d love to hear from you!

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Is That Poop or Chocolate? The Joys of Having a Toddler.

So the other day, as I stood at the kitchen sink pressed for time and on the edge of insanity, my adorable blue-eyed toddler comes into the room and says “Mommy, I have poop on my fingers.”  What?  How the hell would that have happened.  I shut off the water and stoop down to his level to get a closer look at what the hell was going on.  He shoves his hand towards my face and repeats “I have poop on my fingers”.  I grab his little wrist and take note of what better be chocolate on his fingertips.  His diaper’s gone.  Where in the hell is his diaper at?!  So I asked him where the hell his diaper was, but in a more kid friendly way (meaning I used those exact words but in a softer, more “nurturing” tone), and he tells me he pooped in the potty.  And by “pooped in the potty” he meant pooped all over the potty, and the cabinet and a little bit on the floor.  Judging by the scraps of tissue stuck in his tiny little butt crack, it was clear this rookie tried to wipe his own ass too.  Well that explains the poop on the fingers situation.  I praised his efforts to use the big boy potty and kept the criticism of his timing to potty train himself to myself.   I figure it’ll be more fun to bring it up at the dinner table one day, when he brings his new girlfriend home to meet the family.